Heartbeat City
by Le Diable
Summary: "Mornings seemed to fade into her dreaded nights so quickly, days merging into the next with nothing to set them apart." Post X-3, RyRo. Explicit content.
1. Prologue

I've recently become rather obsessed with the X-men films, especially with Rogue who is portrayed by one of my favourite actresses, the lovely Anna Paquin. I am not too good with writing big long stories, one shots are usually my thing so I'm going to keep this quite short - maybe five chapters or so. This is Rogue/Pyro story, with elements of Rogue/Bobby and maybe a couple of others, we'll see as we go along. It takes place after X-Men: The Last Stand and contains explicit sexual content (some of which I may have to link to another site) and very strong language.

Please review! They inspire me to write more

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><p>PROLOGUE<p>

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><p>He patrolled along the street, headlights on full blast. There was only one streetlamp working here and it flickered on and off every now and again. He kept his speed low, eyes strained through the gloom to try to find her face. Most of the girls tended to congregate beneath the streetlamp for safety and visibility, and if this would've increased competition between normal hookers, it didn't matter for this lot. They were all under the roost of the same pimp, some European bloke, and the work between the girls tended to be shared out evenly enough.<p>

He pulled up and a tall high-heeled blonde strutted over, smiling. It spread a little further across her face as she recognised him. He knew her as the pimp's favourite – the one in charge.

"I'm looking for Elena," he told her. Elena was his regular.

"Elena is with client right now," said the blonde. She turned and scanned her group. "Katarina - come here!"

But the man knew he didn't really want Katarina the minute he saw her. She was dark-haired for one thing, and too old. Elena was rosy cheeked and wore her pale hair in a plait at the side of her head. She looked playful and innocent and kept her socks on when he fucked her cause she knew that was what he liked.

"No," he said. He poked his head out the window and tried to get a glimpse of the rest, but he knew their faces off by heart by now and none of them fitted his bill.

He was about to tell the blonde that he would just wait for Elena when he saw her. Standing slightly away from the others. A dark hood pulled up around her head. The light from the streetlamp illuminated one side of her face. She looked nervous. She had full, pouty lips, dark eyes and a heart-shaped pale face.

"Her," he said, pointing.

The blonde followed his finger and frowned. She obviously didn't recognise this girl. A sense of urgency seemed to deepen the lines on her face. "Katarina will go bareback – no extra charge."

Katarina began to protest but she was silenced by a sharp hand gesture. He wondered if business was slow tonight. They usually weren't so desperately unwilling to lose a sale.

"No," he said dismissively. And he shunted several metres down the pavement away from them and called to the newbie. "Girl!"

She came forward out of the shadows, giving the other girls a wide berth, and climbed into the passenger's seat. He took off before she had even closed the door, not wanting to see the blonde berate the rest of her whores for not chasing this new girl off.

He glanced sideways at her. Yes, very nice. She was very pretty, very youthful.

"You new around these parts?" he asked her.

She nodded the affirmative.

"Well if you ask the other girls, they'll all tell you the same thing. I'm one of the nicest guys around here. I'll treat you right."

"Actually, I'm just passing through really."

His insides swooped. She spoke with a soft Southern drawl which he had not expected at all.

"And what brings a Southern belle like yourself all the way up here to New York?" He wanted to ask if there was a shortage of clients in the South, but he severely doubted that.

She shifted slightly in her seat. "I ran away."

"Ran away?" That was a bit more positive than being told she was trafficked out of Eastern Europe as a slave like the rest of the girls, but immediately his defences went up. He had heard enough on daytime TV to know why most of the individuals on police 'missing persons' went missing in the first place. "You aren't a mutant, are you?"

She looked round at him for the first time. "You think if I was a mutant, I'd be doing this for a living?"

He laughed. "Good point."

They drove a little further in silence. She was far more reserved than the other hookers. Most of them smiled or flirted at least a little, and Elena usually gave him a strip-show in the front seat. But she sat so quietly and stiffly, her white hands clasped in her lap, hood still wrapped around her head, eyes glassy as she watched the city approach them.

He never took the whores to his own house. It was a dump, and his wife would probably protest. His brother owned a small one-bed apartment in Lower Manhattan but was away for work a lot of time. He had decorated it classy enough that it impressed the girls, and he had been sympathetic enough to cut him a key after he had explained woefully that he was "having problems with the wife".

"What's your name?" he asked her.

There was a pause. "Annie."

"What's your real name?"

"I'd rather not say. You can call me Annie."

He didn't know why he expected her to give her his real name. He didn't know why he wanted to know. He made a point of not even asking for proof when Elena told him she was eighteen. This wasn't a business where you asked questions. It was filthy and sleazy and that was why he enjoyed it more than sleeping with his wife. There was something quite intriguing about this little Southern creature though.

"Ok, Annie," he said, trying out the name on his tongue, knowing he would be groaning it all night. "My name's John."

Her head inclined slightly and her dark eyes darted towards him for a split second. So quick he almost missed it.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing." There was another pause. "I knew a guy called John once."

"Everybody knows a guy called John. It's a common name."

"I suppose so."

They reached his apartment shortly after eleven. A gust of wind had blown the contents of a dumpster all down the street. He stepped in a bag of old Chinese takeaway and kicked it off irritably.

"It's nicer inside," he reassured her. It was up on the second floor. Though unused during the day, he had the heating set to come on at nine every night so that the rooms weren't too cold for the girls to take their clothes off. He closed the door behind her and took her coat. Her hood came down and a bundle of long black waves tumbled out of it. He stared. There were two very uniform streaks of grey at her hairline.

"I take cash up front," she told him.

He didn't acknowledge this. "That's unusual," he said, pointing at the grey.

She wrinkled her nose at his finger pointing in her face. "It's a stress thing."

He snorted. "I know what you mean. I have something tucked in the fridge for the very same reason. Please, go through to the bedroom and make yourself comfortable."

When he came into the bedroom, two glasses of white wine in his hands, a wad of cash tucked under his arm, she was sitting tersely at the edge of the bed. He paused in the doorway to admire her. He had snatched up a rare little gem tonight. She was slim and wore a delicate looking white blouse that fell quite low on her chest. The sleeves were short, but only an inch or two of the skin on her arms was showing as she was wearing a pair of long, white leather gloves. She was unravelling a long grey scarf from around her neck and took the glass of wine off him with a polite nod.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're very welcome, Annie." He sat next to her on the bed. She smelled divine. She must use tea tree and mint scented shampoo on that luscious hair of hers. All of a sudden he felt like he might go mad if he didn't touch her.

He reached out and popped open the first button of her blouse. She looked at him for a moment and then sat her untouched glass of wine on the carpeted floor. She went to take off her gloves but he stopped her.

"No," he said, hand squeezing her shoulder. "Keep those on."

They were sexy.

"If that's what you want," she said. She stood at the foot of the bed in front of him and unbuttoned the rest of her blouse, slipping it off her shoulders. He let out a groan. A pale pink, lacy bra pushing her breasts up. Smooth porcelain skin. She was fucking _perfect_.

"Yes Annie, yes," he breathed. "Take it all off."

She unzipped her jeans, turned her back to him as she shimmied them down her hips, revealing matching pale pink pants, her tight ass, everything pale and smooth and beautiful. When she turned back to face him, only in the bra, knickers and those white gloves, he felt like his dick might explode in his pants.

He hurriedly tore them off, nearly ripped his t-shirt in his eagerness to get naked for this girl. She didn't even look down at his body as he undressed. Her dark eyes kept boring into his, but he saw them flicker almost imperceptibly to the little bundle of cash that had fallen to the floor along with his t-shirt.

"Do you want to take the rest off for me?" she asked.

"Fuck yes." He grabbed her around the waist and swung on her onto the bed on her front. She was light, like a young girl, and her spine poked out in a knobbly line down her back. He popped the clasp on her bra, slid his hands down the skin. He hooked his finger round the waistband of her pants, pulled them down slowly to reveal the curve of her ass.

"You are so fucking perfect," he murmured.

"Could you turn me round?" she asked, twisting her head so that her voice wasn't muffled by the sheets.

He flipped her over, and for a moment she looked like an angel with all that dark hair spilling around her pale face. Felt like one too, the silky skin of her thighs pressing against his, his cock jutting against her hip bone. Then her face screwed up, brow furrowing in concentration, and he knew she was ready for him.

He went to position himself and found he couldn't. He blinked, tried to move again but only succeeded in collapsing on top of her. His vision was going blurry at the edges, his fingers and toes going cold.

"Wh-what..."

The world spun. He vaguely recognised that he had been thrown off the bed onto his carpet, and that an agonising penetrating ache had settled into his hips and legs. The pain felt miles deep. He tried to blink his vision clear but it was now completely obscured.

"An...Annie..."

"Sorry, darling," came her voice clearly through the roaring in his ears. "Don't panic, you're not dying."

He tried to reach for her. Whether to strike her or just get a hold of whatever she had used to do this to him, he didn't know. His arms wouldn't budge.

"It should wear off within the next 24 hours," she was saying. "There's no need to call the police in the morning, I'm only taking the money that you would've given me for the sex anyway. You got a nice little show and a good feel up – I'd say that was worth the even $100." There was a pause. "Next time, just wait for Elena."

He couldn't even summon up the anger... he couldn't summon up anything... everything was going grey...

But the last thought that feebly burst into his head as he lost consciousness had nothing to do with her last words that he didn't even hear – "I'll leave the door open so the mailman finds you in the morning" – and when he woke up the next night in the hospital, he'd only vaguely remember the streak in her hair and the pink bra let alone this thought. But it was the only thing in the whole world that could connect, relate and explain what the hell was happening.

And the thought consisted of just one word:

_Mutant_.

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><p>The whore called Annie drew her hood up around her face as she stepped out of her unfortunate punter's apartment building into the street. She fished her phone out of her coat pocket to check the time. Eleven twenty. That had taken longer than she had expected it to. Most men tended to laugh at her gloves, not tell her to keep them on.<p>

She shuddered. She needed a shower.

She needed a taxi too. She didn't recognise this area. She could call up and book one but that would mean waiting around this building and possibly be sighted by residents who would put two and two together if Jaunty John bothered to report this to the police.

She should probably move to another part of town tomorrow anyway, just in case.

The phone in her hand suddenly started vibrating and a loud jingle blared down the street. She nearly leapt out of her skin, quickly rejecting the call. She sighed. That was stupid. She had been ignoring all calls to this phone on purpose, so that people might get the idea that she wasn't using it anymore. Rejecting the call made it clear that that wasn't the case.

She glanced at the name under the 'missed call' notification and her stomach turned over.

Bobby.

She quickly shoved her phone in her pocket, where it rustled the across the dollar notes. She swore under her breath. "That boy just doesn't get the message..."

Bobby was her sort of boyfriend-come-ex-boyfriend who had been calling her every night for the last week and a half. Always around the same time, she presumed just before he got into bed at night. She ignored the calls, was usually fine about it, except for these few occasions when he happened to call her directly after she had gone on the game. Other men touching her skin, getting hard for her, seeing her naked... She never let it go any further but she still felt guilty about it.

She shouldn't really. He was part of the reason why she had left in the first place.

But if anyone should be touching her, realistically it should be him.

Her phone dinged again. She looked. He'd left a voicemail.

He'd never done that before.

Because he hadn't been sure that she was still using her phone until now – right when she had stupidly rejected the call.

She glanced up and down the street as if expecting to see him running down it towards her. It wouldn't hurt, would it? Just to see what he has to say? She doubted they were taking her disappearance so seriously that they were keeping tabs on what she did with her phone. They wouldn't know that she had listened to it.

She dialled her voicemail service and held the phone up to her ear.

"_You have one new message._"

A man was coming down the street with a bag full of beer bottles. He tried to catch her eye as he walked past, but she turned her face away.

"_Message one_," the automated female voice continued. "_Today at 23:27_.

"Rogue–"

She hung up almost immediately. Hearing his voice was like having a fist squeezing her stomach. Especially hearing it say her name. All of a sudden she wanted nothing more than to jump onto the next bus and head straight back to Westchester to see him.

But she couldn't do that.

She made sure the man with the beer bags had walked a fair enough distance away from her before turning out of the light of punter John's apartment block and heading down the street towards the nearest sounds of traffic. The clouds opened over her head and a cold drizzly rain clung to her clothes as her heels clicked down the pavement.

There was no way she was ever going back.


	2. Heartbeat City Here We Come

The prologue, because it was from the point of view of an unknown, doesn't really give much to go on (except his perverted thoughts) so I thought I'd upload this chapter right away. The story will be largely from Rogue's perspective.

Please review! They inspire me to write.

Also Heartbeat City is an amazing song by the American band The Cars which you should check out. In fact, just check out all their stuff, cause it's amazing.

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><p>CHAPTER ONE<p>

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><p>Rogue sat cross legged on the end of the bed in a loose robe, her long damp hair twisted up in a towel. She'd managed to find a relatively cheap if rather grimy hotel room across the bridge from Manhattan in Brooklyn. Between the price of the room and the taxi fare, she only had another handful of dollars left to grab some lunch before she'd have to go on the game again.<p>

She looked at her meagre little collection of savings sitting in front of her on the frayed and burnt duvet cover and felt like kicking them out of her sight.

She hated being broke. And New York was the worst city in the whole world to be broke in.

It had its benefits admittedly. New York was so huge and so populous that she could move around the various red light districts without hitting the same area twice and potentially running into one of her victims.

She was getting tired of this game though. She hadn't even been away from the X Mansion for two weeks and she already spent more time hungry than not, and booking herself into cheap dirty hotels with money she had stolen from men who paid her to take her clothes off made her feel about two inches big.

Sometimes she felt like the receptionists or the taxi drivers knew the truth by the way they looked at her, as if it was stamped all over her face. The way she only ever paid with crumpled up notes, never with a credit card. The way she never booked in any earlier than midnight. The way she hailed down her cabs from quiet suburban streets and never had a destination in mind, only handed over what could spare, saying "Just go as far as this will take you."

Not only that, she missed having company. Not the company of dirty men who skulked about at night after streetwalkers, but the company of her friends. She missed Logan desperately, the glint of paternal affection when he looked at her, his wise cracks and the strangely comforting scent of scotch and cigar smoke. She missed her classes with the gentle, intelligent presence of Professor X who had been obliterated into a thousand tiny little pieces. She missed Bobby's blue eyes and his cool lips, the pressure of his hand wrapped in hers. She even missed John, who had taken off and abandoned them so long ago she could barely even remember what his voice sounded like.

She had thought about him last night, she remembered, just briefly. Her eyes had scooted to the punter called John who had picked her up in Manhattan, almost making sure it wasn't her former friend, even when she was pretty sure he was dead.

She checked her phone. She only had another hour before she had to check out.

Her pink bra and pants were still drying on the radiator along with her good blouse so she pulled on the stuff she didn't reserve for her night-time activities – a vest, a red jumper with a hole in the elbow and a pair of what Bobby had so affectionately coined her 'granny panties' – plain, unflattering things that she was pretty sure she'd have to dock her fee for if she was to go back to a man's apartment in them. She pulled her still damp hair into a ponytail at the nape of her neck and concealed the grey streaks beneath a beanie.

"Is there a diner round here?" she asked at reception. She was counting her remaining bills. Maybe enough for some soup and bread.

"There's a pub that does food just a few doors down," the receptionist told her. She eyed the pathetic sum of money in Rogue's hand. "It's quite cheap too."

The pub in question was a tacky Irish thing that was filled with people who clearly had nothing better to do at midday than drink. She shrugged off her heavy coat and slipped into a booth, checking the grease splattered menu. True enough the only thing she could afford was soup of the day, or beer.

"What can I get you, love?" asked the bar man gruffly as she stepped up to order.

"I'll have a pint, please."

"Of?"

"Whatever's the cheapest."

He didn't give her the same judgemental look as the hotel receptionist, just filled up the dusty glass and she passed over the last of her money.

Back in her booth, she took a deep slurp of the bitter and felt it coil in her belly. She hadn't eaten since lunchtime yesterday. This would probably get her drunk.

Good, she thought. It might make this day a little more bearable.

She was halfway through her drink when her phone dinged. She glanced over the rim of her glass to where it was sitting on the table and nearly choked. A text. From _Logan_.

The preview read:

_Where are you kid? We didn't think you'd take..._

She dithered a little bit, wanting to delete it right off the bat. The words were echoing around her head in his voice, that voice she missed so much. Even before she left, he had barely spoken to her, had retreated somewhere inside himself. After Alcatraz Island, she had been revelling in the joy and freedom the cure had brought to her, short-lived that it turned out to be, whilst he was wiping Jean's blood off his claws, scrubbing it out from under his fingernails. Screaming himself awake at night and finding temporary solace at the bottom of a bottle. They had drifted so far apart that all memory of the relationship they once had seemed like a far-off dream.

She wanted to laugh. People turned in their seats to look at her curiously and she realised that she had, loudly.

Ok. She was drunk.

This realisation gave her the courage to open the rest of the text.

_Where are you kid? We didn't think you'd take off for this long. We're worried about you, text me back so I know you're safe._

There was another ding. He had sent her another message as sort of an afterthought.

_Sorry I haven't had the time to be there for you lately_

She snorted. He had had plenty of time to be there for her, he just chose to spend it knocking back raw spirits and puking his guts up.

Through the haze of alcohol she began to feel a little bit ashamed of herself. Logan had gone through his own personal hell. He had loved Jean wildly and after chasing her half way across the country to rescue her from Magneto, he had been forced to kill her. Not just to save his own skin, but that of his friends and thousands and thousands of bystanders. And the way he had to kill her. Not just a simple bullet in the head or anything else so merciful, he had to practically disembowel her and watch her bleed to death in his arms.

With this unpleasant image resting heavy on her shoulders, she hit the reply button and typed two simple words.

_I'm safe_

But before she hit send, she stared at them for a while. Contemplating them. _Was_ she safe?

Nope.

She was cold, poor and hungry. She was walking an extremely unstable, very dangerous line in order to get to the money that would put a roof over her head. She was choosing alcohol over food just to try and deal with the day ahead of her. She didn't have a single person in the world who knew where she was and not one person who she could count on to love her unconditionally.

Logan? Consumed with grief that he was, he had reached out to her today. But what would happen if she sought him out? She couldn't stay at the mansion, and even if she could convince him to move out with her, would she really want that? Living in close quarters with a man who had once skewered her through the chest in his sleep, long before the events of Alcatraz even took place?

And Bobby, who told her he loved her when he wasn't able to touch her for more than five seconds at a time, who then chickened out of making love to her after she had gone and got the fucking cure _for him_... Well, she wasn't going to sit around and wait for that son of a bitch to make up his mind on whether or not he gave enough of a crap about her.

Ashamed to feel tears welling in her eyes, Rogue downed the last of her beer and strode out of the pub onto the busy New York street.

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><p>"Fuck me, I look a disaster."<p>

Scrambling through the contents of her pitiful make-up bag, she found her concealer and dabbed a little onto the circles under her eyes. A slick of dark red lip gloss. She grimaced. No, that just made her look washed out. She wiped it off and replaced it with a shocking pink.

Much better.

Her hair was something left to be desired though. The hotel shampoo had been cheap – her roots were already going greasy and without access to her straighteners, the ends curled into unruly waves. She buttoned up her blouse and thought she would probably pass as pretty and clean enough, especially under the darkness of the street.

She left the filthy public toilets she had been forced to get ready in and headed down the street. It hadn't taken too much strolling around the area that afternoon to figure out where you could acquire a 'lady of the night'. She walked past a woman leaning in a doorway who probably would've been pretty if you subtracted ten years and the tell-tale pockmarks on her face that screamed meth addiction. She threw Rogue a dirty look.

Moving on quickly, Rogue found a small expanse of empty pavement. She leant up against a closed shutter and pulled her hood around her face. She usually didn't have to wait long, but it made her nervous. She could see a woman in pink boots watching her from across the road. She'd rather not have to drain her competition if she could avoid it. Plus it would put her out of business for the night and she would have no other option but sleep on the street.

After about ten minutes, a car cruised along and picked up the woman who Rogue had passed in the doorway. Shortly after, another car slowed down in front of her but seemed to think better of it and moved on. Rogue frowned, and then realised that her face was barely visible under her hood. The cold bit her ears as she slipped it off her head, and a gust of wind tousled her already messy hair out of place.

Great, just great.

She was smoothing it back behind her ears when she felt the stare.

She glanced over at the woman in the pink boots but she wasn't paying her any attention. In fact, she was looking with apparent interest at something invisible down the street. Rogue followed her eyes into the gloom and wondered if pink boots was on some form of hallucinogenic when she realised – her stomach doing a tumble – that there was a figure standing opposite her on the other side of the road.

Watching her.

Rogue stared back at him for a few moments. Was he a punter? If so, what was he doing just standing there? Expecting her to approach him? Pink boots seemed to have the same idea. She strutted over in a manner that was probably supposed to look coy, but the man dismissed her wordlessly. A tiny light which she assumed was the end of a cigarette did a little loop in the air as he sharply gestured her to leave her alone. She stalked sullenly back to her position and shot Rogue a very unpleasant look.

At that moment, a long, sleek car pulled up. A dark haired man poked his head out the window and gave her an appraising look.

"How much for a blowjob?"

"Uh," she cleared her throat. "Forty."

"Get in."

As she walked round to the passenger side of the car, her eyes curiously sought out the man standing in the shadows. Her hand rested hesitantly on the handle. He was gone.

"Come on girl, I don't have all day."

The man looked her over as she settled into her seat and he nodded appreciatively. "Damn," he said. Then he reached over without warning and squeezed her boob. She forced a smile and what she hoped looked like an expression of pleasure. Forty dollars wouldn't be enough. She'd probably have to swipe this one's wallet.

"I take cash up front," she said. To cushion the blow, she started unbuttoning her blouse from the top, flashing her cleavage. His eyes feasted hungrily on the sight, and then he pointed at her gloves.

"Are those your grandma's?" he asked with a snort.

"Darling, it's pretty nippy out here, if you get me," she winked. He let out a roar of laughter.

"A funny whore," he said. "Fancy that."

She took the gloves off in advance. She had no intention of getting naked with this pig.

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><p>Rogue studied the cooking instructions on the back of the pizza box, stuffing her hastily made cheese and lettuce sandwich into her mouth. The man who had picked her up was unconscious on the sofa, the trousers around his knees. She had amused him enough in the car to convince him to take her all the way back to his house, where she hadn't wasted any time. Especially after she had noticed the freshly delivered groceries still sitting in bags on his kitchen counter.<p>

She stuffed a packet of cookies, a bunch of bananas and a carton of orange juice into her shoulder bag and set the oven to go off in ten minutes. She'd take the pizza to go.

His wallet was hanging out of the back pocket of his trousers. She fished it out, shooting him a look of disgust, and took out the entire contents. About two hundred dollars – give or take. From the size and location of his house and his flashy car, he wouldn't miss it.

The oven beeper went off and she quickly cut the pizza up and stuffed the slices between two big napkins. She pulled her red jumper and her coat over her blouse and walked out without giving the man on the sofa a second glance.

The pizza was so incredibly good she didn't even complain as the hot cheese burnt her mouth. She ate as she walked. It was late enough to be unsafe but she had simply tucked her gloves in her jeans pocket. If anyone tried anything, they'd be in a coma within seconds.

She was getting reckless. She never took more than what she needed and she had really gone to town on that guy. The two hundred dollars in her blouse pocket felt heavy against her breast. He had been repulsive, sure, but any more than the guy from the previous night? He had treated her with a bit more respect, but he was still intent on fucking her even when she had admitted she was vulnerable, a runaway. Really, all of them were as disgusting as each other.

She treated herself to a nicer hotel that night, one that had pristinely clean sheets and fancy little tubs of the mint scented shampoo and conditioner that she loved. She tucked the rest of the money away for a decent meal in the morning, even though she could barely even stomach the idea of eating anymore. She had eaten half of the cookies and two of the bananas after her shower. Her belly was pleasantly swollen for the first time in weeks.

Before she fell asleep she set her phone on the pillow beside her. Her sent message box was empty except for one text which had been sent some few minutes previously. It read:

_I'm safe Logan. I hope everything is ok. I miss you. Marie x_


	3. Happy Days Count on Thumbs

Hi all, chapter two is finally here! I've just started back to University full-time so my time to write has been pushed back to just before I go to sleep. The next couple of chapters will be quite exciting to write though, you'll see why at the end of this one ;)

As always, please review!

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><p><strong>CHAPTER TWO<strong>

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><p>Rogue was aware she probably looked like a starving dog unleashed in a butcher's shop but she didn't care. She swallowed another huge mouthful of ham and chips and hailed down a passing waitress. "And I'll have another glass of water... No wait." She squinted at the fridge behind the counter. "Actually get me a Fanta Orange please."<p>

The waitress looked down at the various empty and half empty plates on the table in front of her. Rogue forced a grin, knowing she had god knows what stuck in her teeth and smeared around her mouth. "It's one of those days. Could I get some ice with my Fanta too?"

There was a small television behind the counter which was bleating out some report on mutant relations. A giant blue hairy man she recognised as Dr Hank McCoy was being interviewed but she wasn't giving him any of her attention. She was taking the day off and she was going to enjoy it, and she was starting off by stuffing herself full of delicious cooked hams with chips and vegetables and breads with butter and jam. Afterwards she wanted to do something ridiculous like visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art or Central Park or something. Feel like a tourist for once and not a tramp.

The waitress brought her Fanta and she chugged half of it from the bottle in one go.

There was a grubby looking man in dirt splattered overalls sitting at the counter. He had been watching her since she had started eating, not looking away even when she had met his eye defiantly over a forkful of carrots. His tiny eyes were now thankfully fixed on the television.

Rogue pulled her map of New York out of her shoulder bag. It was marked with little x's here and there to denote the streets the men she had already robbed lived and an o for each of the red light districts she had already frequented. She marked a little x on the fancy street she had been the previous night, knowing it was probably a one in a thousand chance someone with that much money would be likely to pick her up again.

As she pondered the best route to take her to the Met, her ears picked up the drone of the news report.

"_...now the Department of Mutant Affairs is reporting that the so-called 'Mutant Cure' released by Worthington Labs in the summer has reached a failure rate of 74%. Depending on the Class rating of the individual mutant, the cure may have rescinded as little as one month after application. Indeed many Lower Class mutants – between Classes One and Three – have reported their powers returning only under extenuating circumstances, such as periods of high stress or agitation. This is believed to have been the case two weeks ago when a woman was accidentally killed by a fireman during an arson evacuation in Milwaukee. The fireman, later discovered to be mutant who had received the Worthington Labs cure some two months before the incident, was apprehended at the scene and was reported to have pointed barbs protruding from his face, hands and arms. The Milwaukee police department..."_

The man in the overalls snorted. "Bunch of fucking freaks," he declared, not bothering to keep his voice down.

The report moved on to a description of mutant Class systems. Rogue's stomach clenched. A photograph of a beautiful red-haired woman had appeared on screen.

"_... the telekinetic mutant Dr Jean Grey who was a lead figure in the terror cell The Brotherhood of Mutants_ _is believed to be the only known Class Five mutant in existence. She was responsible for the murder of thirty eight American soldiers and an unknown number of mutant terrorists on Alcatraz Island two months ago. Although she died at the scene, the circumstances of her death are..."_

Responsible for _murder_? _A_ _lead figure in The Brotherhood of Mutants_? Were they kidding?

Storm and Logan had appealed on Jean's behalf to the highest authorities. They had brought compelling evidence of her illness – reports from Professor X's lab and excerpts from his journals all about the dual personality, the instability. Those who knew Dr Grey, who had been so elegant and refined, couldn't be anything but offended and outraged that these accidental deaths were being stamped all over her name under the term murder. But Storm and Logan were rebuked, their evidence ignored. Why? Cause it didn't fit in with the government's agenda, which in her personal opinion was looking more and more anti-mutant day by day.

"_...will recognise the face of the founder and leader of The Brotherhood of Mutants, Erik Lehnsherr, also known as Magneto. Lehnsherr, whose whereabouts are currently unknown, ranks as a Class Four mutant along with several of his accomplices, including Raven Darkholme and John Allerdyce. The factors that..."_

Three photographs filled the screen. Magneto and Mystique's photos were mug shots that had been taken during their separate incarcerations. The other photo, which featured a young man with badly bleached blond hair, was a frozen still from surveillance footage of some kind. A caption underneath his image stated that he had died this year. On Alcatraz presumably. Rogue looked away quickly.

Feeling like her hams and peas were going to make a sudden reappearance all over the table, she threw what looked like an appropriate number of bills onto the counter and made a hasty exit. She bent over outside the diner, one hand pressed hard against her stomach, the other clutching the stair railings for balance.

She didn't hear about Alcatraz until she had returned to the X Mansion with the cure pumping through her veins. On the bus with her travel bag at her feet, her coat folded in her lap. Her gloves tucked away out of sight. She wore a t-shirt and when the bus turned at corners, her elbow would brush against the arm of the man sitting beside her. And nothing happened. No roaring of blood, no veins popping to the surface, no eyes rolling back, no silent gaping screams. She, for the first time since she could remember, was normal. She could barely keep the smile off her face, couldn't keep the various scenarios out of her mind. Kissing Bobby, touching his skin, making love for the first time...

And then she had walked through the door and shit hit the fan. Jean was dead. Logan was a broken man. Bobby was bruised and bloodied on the sofa hand in hand with an equally bedraggled Kitty Pryde. Feeling like it wasn't her place to walk in on them all sitting so sombrely in the wake of battle, she had slipped past them and no one had bothered to look up.

Later that day they had called an assembly with all the pupils to inform them of Jean's death. They briefly described what had happened. Magneto had ordered an assault on Worthington Labs, intent on murdering an innocent mutant child. His efforts had resulted in nearly fifty deaths of humans and mutants alike. After the X-Men had emerged from the fight victorious, Magneto had escaped alive but powerless, with several phials of the cure stuck in his chest. A promise that we would build on this setback to ensure a safer and better future for us all. Nobody mentioned John.

"Are you alright, dear?"

Rogue looked up. One of the waitresses had poked her head out the door.

"Yes." She cleared her throat, straightened up. "Yes, I'm fine. Just ate too much."

The waitress held out a ten and a five dollar bill with some change. "You overpaid us, dear."

Rogue waved it away. "Stick it in your tip jar or something."

The man in the dirty overalls pushed his way past the waitress and gave her a suspicious look as he pulled a hat over his head. "Why're you wearing those gloves?"

"It's cold."

"You were wearing them indoors."

She suddenly became angry.

"Why don't you mind your own fucking business?" she spat.

She had wanted a nice, normal day for once and it was being shit all over by this fucking ugly moron and that stupid fucking news report and stupid dead John Allerdyce. Like coming home excited about being cured only to be ignored by everyone she cared about. Feeling shamefully selfish, she sloped off down the street, all plans of visiting the Met chucked out the window.

* * *

><p>The sun was low in the sky when she finally stopped wandering aimlessly through the streets and settled herself on a bench in a children's playground. She squinted up at its cold glare through the trees. Mornings seemed to fade into her dreaded nights so quickly, days merging into other days with nothing to set them apart. She didn't even bother to track what day of the week it was anymore.<p>

A few families had braced the evening chill to take their children out to play. She watched for a moment as a little girl struggled to climb into a swing set and was hit with the realisation that, with the cure failing her so spectacularly, all her chances of ever bearing children had failed with it. While she had established some control over her power, it took an incredible amount of concentration. Even if she got to point where she was able to hold it off long enough to make love, how could she hold it off for nine consecutive months? It was impossible. If any potential child of hers managed to implant itself in her womb and she could focus on keeping her powers under control during the day, it wouldn't matter. The minute she'd fall asleep, her powers would take over and drain all the life from it in seconds.

The cure had offered her another path – one that looked a bit like her church back in Meridian, laden with fresh flowers, light shining down through the stained glassed windows, Bobby standing at the alter in a fine suit, so beautiful and wonderful and perfect that it had been worth it. Becoming what she'd both wanted and feared. A conformist. Someone who took the easy way out to fit in. But now all the flowers had withered and the glass shattered between the pews. That path had been shut off to her now, like she had won the lottery and then lost the ticket.

The little girl fell off the swing into the dirt and started screeching. Her older brother rushed over to scoop her up. Rogue watched them with a small smile. As their mother groaned and took the little girl off her son, he stepped back, and Rogue's gaze fell on a rather strange sight behind them in the trees.

At least she thought it did. She blinked and the trees were empty. But for a split second...

An icy hand seemed to grip her heart. She grabbed her bag and made for the park exit. When she got out onto the street, she broke out into a half run. Once she had cut through enough side streets and emerged onto a busy road full of open fronted restaurants and people smoking outside bars, she slowed down, a stitch aching in her side.

There had been a man watching her in the trees. And if that hadn't been foreboding enough, he had made a dash for it the minute she had caught him. That was a bad sign. That was a very, very bad sign.

_Was someone following her?_

She darted into a grimy looking bar with several letters missing on its sign. Inside was just as unpleasant. She ordered Logan's favourite – a scotch neat – and slid shakily onto a stool, trying not to panic.

Ok, _if _someone was following her, it was more than likely going to be one of the men she had knocked unconscious and stole money from. But how had he found her? Had he spotted her out on the street and recognised her? She hadn't been the most inconspicuous, wearing her trademark grey streak out in the open for all to see. But what were the chances that any of those men would ever run into her again? In New York City, where nearly eight and half million lived? Especially when she was moving around so frequently?

Another option was that the man had been a policeman. That he had been tipped off and had managed to tail her. Or maybe he was somebody looking to lock up streetwalkers. She tried to remember the guy who had been watching her on the street the previous night, but all she could distinguish from the shadows was his cigarette.

For a few silly hopeful seconds, she imagined it might've been someone from X Mansion – maybe Bobby or Logan – but they would never have let her get into a car with a man who was buying a blow job off her. The man who had been watching her hadn't been as tall as they were anyway.

She should just go back. To X Mansion. Try and make something work, even if it wasn't her pathetic excuse for a relationship or her shitty friends.

Rogue downed her scotch, screwing up her face against the burning trail it left in her insides, and ordered another. Fuck Bobby. And fuck Logan too for ignoring her for so long. Fuck the puny little prick that was following her around. Fuck Magneto and John and that stupid blue whore Mystique. Fuck everyone who she'd ever had the misfortune to meet.

In her misery it felt like she had been sitting around shooting the shit for hours. The barman eventually told her she was too drunk and she opened her mouth to politely protest and ending up screaming at him to fuck off. She had to make a break for it instead of suffering the shame of being thrown out, and when she teetered out onto the pavement, there was still some light in the sky. She can't have been there for more than an hour at the most. She staggered sideways and clung to a lamppost for support. The world was spinning every which way.

A man with a massive belly gripped her arm. "You're out of it, love." He leaned close to her face and she could smell his foul breath. Her stomach lurched violently.

"Get out of my way or I'll kill you," she said. He laughed, but let go.

The ground rose up dangerously several times as she stumbled along. Several people tried to intervene, get her help or whatever but she just yelled and they left her alone. She could hear their mean words – 'disgrace', 'shameful' and other insanely judgemental crap. But they didn't know her so how dare they? They didn't know anything beyond their piggy little eyes. They didn't know the isolation of her mutation and what she had _sacrificed_, or at least tried to, in order to avoid a lifetime of disappointments. They didn't know how she got the grey in her hair, or why she was carrying everything she owned in her shoulder bag.

At some point, she found herself crouched behind some dumpsters down a dark alleyway. She tucked her head between her knees and groaned. She was probably going to puke. Why did she have to 'do a Logan' and think that drinking away her sorrows was going to solve anything?

Her hands fumbled in her coat pockets. That was it. She was going to do it. Call him. Get him to rev up on his bike and whisk her away back to the only place she could call home. She'd had enough.

Almost as soon as the thought crossed her mind, a pair of lights blared at her from one of the alleyway. For a crazy couple of seconds, she imagined she had somehow contacted Logan telepathically and he'd arrived in his car to save her.

She recognised it – fancy, sporty, sleek. Cyclops's old car – the one they had used to flee X Mansion to Bobby's house in Boston. She felt the laugh bubbling up, got to her feet unsteadily. She couldn't believe it. Maybe she had developed some sort of telepathy over the last month, side effect of the cure or something.

She had taken just one step when the realisation hit her like a slap up the face.

She did know this car. But it wasn't Cyclops's. It was almost the same except for one thing – this one was black, Cyclops's had been blue.

This was the car that had picked her up last night.

With a cry of panic, she turned to make a break for it. Stumbled over her heels and came crashing to the ground. A door slammed. She had just wriggled one of her gloves off when a hand grabbed her arm and pulled her not so gently to her feet.

She lashed out, missed. Her assailant grabbed her other arm and twisted them both behind her back. Her bare hand groped desperately but it was no use. She was disarmed.

A breathless laugh gusted against her ear.

"Wow," the man said. "That brought a whole new level to the meaning of pathetic."

She _knew_ that voice – but she was pretty sure it didn't belong to the man from last night.

"What do you want?"

"That depends. What're you selling?" His fingers were like a vice, enough to leave bruises even through the fabric of her coat. He was keeping her bare hand pressed against her back. He _knew_.

"That's very funny," she said. "Except not to me. So you're the one who's been following me about?"

"I had to check you out."

"Why?"

When he didn't reply straight away, she snapped, "_Why have you been following me_?"

"Not every day you come across a mutant whore."

"Who says I'm a mutant?"

He snorted. "Don't act like I'm stupid."

"OK." She tried again. "Who says I'm a whore?"

"Oh yeah – you must have been offering those forty dollar blow jobs on the street corner just for market research."

There was a short pause.

This guy had watched her get picked up last night – the strange man in the shadows – but how did he have the punter's car? How did he know about her mutation? And why did he have to feel the need to follow her around to... to do this? Attack her in an alleyway? Her mind shot back to her abduction by Magneto. How he had strapped her to a machine that had nearly killed her. This guy could be one of his men. And if he wasn't, the likely alternatives were worse. After Alcatraz, the numbers of human on mutant attacks were rising day by day. Unexplained disappearances, bodies in the rivers, burnt out homes and cars. And even if this guy wasn't anti-mutant, he could still damn well be a rapist.

Rogue contemplated how likely she'd be able to get a good kick at this guy's legs in her unstable state when his next words stunned her. His mouth had moved very close to her ear.

"I followed you last night – saw what you did through the window."

She grit her teeth. "So?"

"So do you always drain your victims right away? Or have you let any of them get to second base? I can think of better ways to make a fast buck than going back to guys' houses and making them think you're hard up for dick." The leer in his voice was unmistakable. "Maybe you enjoy it."

"You fucking pervert," she spat. She struggled against his grip but it only tightened in warning. "I have to get a roof over my head somehow – and don't you fucking judge me, you don't even know me!"

He laughed. "Apparently I don't."

"And _let go of me_! Do you get off on following girls around and dragging them down alleyways or something? Whatever you think you're going to do to me, do it and go to hell, I'll kill you before you even manage–"

He let out a loud, fake snore. "You're not going to do anything Rogue, so just pipe the fuck down before someone comes to investigate."

She stopped struggling. "How do you know my name?"

"For fuck's sake, I know you're drunk and everything cause you smell like a brewery, but you were never this stupid."

He loosened his grip. She wrenched herself forwards and whipped round, bewildered. He had never been tall for his age and he was skinnier than she remembered. The blare from the headlights did little to disguise the bags under his eyes and the pallor of his skin but he was completely and utterly recognisable.

It couldn't possibly...

"_John_?"


End file.
